


milk and honey are under your tongue

by orphan_account



Series: ask and ye shall receive [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Sam, Consent is Sexy, Deep Throating, Dirty Talk, Enthusiastic Consent, First Time, Impala Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP, Phone Sex, Porn Without Plot, Riding, Sam is a Cocktease, Top Dean, Weecest, Wincest - Freeform, dean loves it, face fucking, reassurance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-04 01:48:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5315693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's sweeter than wine, and all Dean wants to do is drink deep. </p><p>--</p><p>Or: the brothers Winchester consummate their relationship in style (by which we mean in the back of the Impala, because they are classy ladies).</p>
            </blockquote>





	milk and honey are under your tongue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cuzitsclarissa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuzitsclarissa/gifts), [saltandbyrne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltandbyrne/gifts).



> third part of the prompts! this is absurdly fun. lots of enthusiastic consent. thank you clarissa for the brilliant prompt. i really enjoyed writing it.
> 
> gifted to saltandbyrne for introducing me to the wonderful world that is weecest. hi senpai.

 

 

 

 

 

 

> _Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth—  _  
>  _ for your love is more delightful than wine. _  
>  _3 Pleasing is the fragrance of your perfumes; _  
>  _ your name is like perfume poured out. _  
>  _ No wonder the young women love you! _  
>  _4 Take me away with you—let us hurry! _  
>  _  Let the king bring me into his chambers. _
> 
>  

 

"So, uh," says Sam, and his voice is frail and frangible as spun sugar, ready to crumble to bits, and oh Dean wants to cage that voice up, keep it safe and locked up around his throat, always, like one of those old-fashioned lockets widows wear, husbands and sons nestled at collarbones and over hearts. Dean  _wants --_

He's got his hand sweaty and curled around the phone, and the sweat's nothing to do with Sam -- for once -- and everything to do with the thirsty snatching air of a motel with broken heating. Outside is cold as Satan's left bollock, but inside the air is dry and empty as Alabama desert.

Empty. That's the key. Dad's got this idea, this dreadful idea, that Dean's well-suited to hunting and Sammy's not, not yet, and so more and more Dean finds himself alone. Dad's 'hunting trips' are, increasingly, an excuse to get wasted at some shitty bar. 

Normally, Dean would writhe with guilt and eldest-son pain. He'd drag Dad home. He'd worry about cars, cops, monsters. 

But not now, not with Sammy's voice caught in the shell of his ear, and a motel room to himself. 

"So, uh," says Sammy, again. "I kind of want you to suck me off."

"Yeah?" Dean rasps, and he runs his fingers up his thighs. "How?"

"Uh," and Sam's voice gets a hitch to it. Dean knows his brother better than he knows himself, knows every flicker and snap in his tones, and knows that particular hitch means: I've got my cock in my hand. 

"You touching yourself, Sammy?"

"Yeah. Got my, uh. Got my dick out. Thinking of you. Having a wank, and thinking of you."

Okay, it's not the most sophisticated dirty talk in the world, but the sublime gasps Sam utters as he tugs at his cock (and, oh, Dean can just see it: Sam's probably got the phone propped against his ear, shoulder hitched high to keep it there, tongue poked between his teeth as he concentrates) are enough to have Dean standing at attention. 

"What are you thinking about?" Dean purrs, making his voice low and velvet, a junglecat sort of voice. He knows exactly how Sam'll respond --

"Oh God Dean," and there we are, it's as gratifying as anything -- save, of course, actually getting his hands on Sammy -- hearing Sam's voice crack, break on a grasp. 

"Talk to me," Dean urges. His mind is firing off delicious, dirty images --  some memories, some he's made up on the spot, but none of them holds a candle to the hard shudder of Sam's breath in his ear. "Tell me what you want." He tugs his boxers down, frees his achingly hard cock, curls his fingers around it with a low, hungry moan. 

"I want you to suck me off," says Sam, in a rush, "I want you on your knees an' -- and I want you to have my cock in your mouth, and I want to come down the back of your throat and, and I want you to swallow it down. Every bit. I want you to -- to --" and he comes with a babybird cry, high and sharp, and Dean's mouth's watering at the thought of pressing his lips tight against Sam's, tasting that silver sound, swallowing it down. 

"You look so pretty when you come," he says, and he's so so close, tight heat swirling around his balls, his stomach tight, precum shining down his cock. "I want --"

"I want you so much," Sam whines. "I want you Dean, Dean I want you," and sometimes that boy really earns his nickname. Dean's not complaining. 

"I'm going to come in your hair," he says, and Sam barks laughter down the phone. "I am, I will, I'll come in your hair and you'll have to walk around with it all day so everyone can see that you're mine, mine, all  _mine --"_

 _"  -- I want you inside me_ ," Sam says, sudden and sharp, and Dean comes so hard he sees stars. 

Spunk's cooling on his hand as he rolls the words around in his head, again and again.

"You -- "

"I want you inside me," Sam says, again, and there's a frill of -- what? -- embarrassment? Delight? Both? "I do Dean, I'm ready. I want you inside me."

"You sure?"

"Yeah," says Sam, and he laughs, giddy as a girl in May. "Yeah, I'm ready. I want you to fuck me. Uh. Do you want to fuck me?"

And Dean knows how important this is to Sam: that he want it to. Because Sam's not an idiot; he knows that Dean's been brought up to the tune of  _look after Sammy_  and he knows all too well that Dean's happy to suffer for the sake of Sam --  _I've already eaten/Dad's asleep/the money will last_  -- and there can't be any doubt in his pretty little head that Dean is doing this for Dean, and not for some strange brand of martyr complex. 

"I want to fuck you," says Dean. "I want -- oh shit," because that's the glare of the Impala's headlights scything through the thin curtains. "Dad's back. Gotta go."

"Can't wait to have your cock up my ass," Sam singsongs, and the dial tone amputates his delighted giggles. 

Dean's hard again as he pulls the duvet up around himself. Excitement is a living, twisting thing beneath his ribs -- and when he closes his eyes he sees Sam. 

 

\--

 

The hunt takes five more days. 

Five hours would be too long -- but five days leaves Dean strung out and shivering, quivery with stress, smoking in a desperate attempt to take the edge off (even though Dad hates the habit, like he can talk about dangerous addictions, him with his guns and booze and vengeance) and Sammy, Sammy's not helping a jot. Sammy's always been a filthy fucking tease but he's getting worse, all fifteen year old spite, and Dean wants to peel his face off and kiss him stupid, possibly in that order, possibly not. 

He's jacking off so much he's getting blisters.

This is a typical wake-up call from Sammy:

"Mornin' Dean," and he's always been a morning lark, chirruping happily away, "I woke up hard thinking 'bout you. When are you gonna get back and fuck me? I'm fucking myself on my fingers, thinking about you, only it's not enough, not enough at all,  _'cos_  my fingers are so little compared to your great  _big cock_  -- want to ram me full of it?" And by this point Dean's awake and hard and whining into the pillow, because Dad's a cheapskate and doesn't ever shell out for an extra room, and Dean can hardly haul the piece-of-shit phone (complete with cord, fuck the motel, haven't they ever heard of wireless) into the shower to jack-off so he has to clamp his knees together and listen to the wet slap of flesh as Sam jerks it, miles and miles and miles away.  _  
_

"Want you," he breathes back, when he's feeling daring, "want to be inside you," and he only does that when he's sure Dad's blackout, heavy with booze and hunt-exhaustion (which is a profound and lasting tiredness that drains away every fibre of your strength). And Sam, without fail, comes as soon as he says it: noisily, with a lot of  _oh Dean_  mixed in with the birdlike cries. 

 

\--

 

Five days, and they finally kill the witch. 

Well. Dean does. He plants an axe in her head, throwing all his sexual frustration into that one blow, and splits her skull asunder. 

Dad nods, impressed. Any other time Dean would have died for a moment of appropriation from John; but things are different now, and what matters most to him is getting back to Sam. 

 

\--

 

Of course, returning home is only the first step. 

John claps a hand to Sam's shoulder, and Dean echoes the gesture: manly recognition, a gesture of fraternal violence -- and if his fingers tighten a little, well, no one's going to notice. 

Then Sam slaps his ass. "Welcome home princess," he coos, and winks. John chuckles, rolls his eyes -- my boys, he's clearly thinking, my stupid-ass boys. 

Dean feels Sam's handprint, hot and huge, and he thinks of bloody witch bits, Bobby in sequins, Bobby in a thong; and that quells his raging erection, but just a little. 

Jesus Christ, if he doesn't fuck Sam soon he's going to  _die_  --

"I want you to stretch me open, pump me  _full_ ," Sam breathes against his ear, not too long later, as they share a pizza. John's well into the whisky; he'll be dead to the world by eleven or so. 

"Yeah?" Dean says out the side of his mouth, gnawing at a crust. "Do you?" Pretending disinterest, while he brushes his fingers back and forth over Sam's shoulderblade. They're sharp. Everything about Sam is lithe and sharp and avian. He's the most beautiful thing in the world. 

"I want you to fuck me open, so I can't walk for days. So I limp. Want you so deep in me I taste you," says Sam. His hair is stupid long, girlishly long, and Dean's always hated it -- but now he's imagining two handfuls of it while he fucks Sam's pretty throat, until all his brother can do is rasp and cough out his name. He's got the mother of all hardons tenting his jeans, and he shifts the pizza box onto his crotch to hide it, and immediately he thinks of every pizza-themed porno he's ever seen (more than he'd like) and he has to resist the impulse to say  _want a side of sausage_  to Sam, because Sam's clearly really into his role as sex-kitten and Dean doesn't want to kill that seductive vibe he's got going with cock-pizza based humour. 

They make aimless chitchat until finally,  _finally_ , Dad slumps onto the table. Face down. 

It's probably the first time in the history of  _ever_  that Dean's been thankful for his Dad's drinking problem. 

He winds his fingers through Sam's. "C'mon."

"Are we gonna --"

"O'course -- just not here."

Sam's face scrunches up. "Where?"

"Where d'you think?"

 

\--

 

Sam is the light and love of Dean's life, and having his cherry popped is a monumental event. It needs to be special. It needs to be perfect.

"The Impala?" says Sam. 

"Yup," says Dean. "Get in, bitch."

"Kiss me," says Sam instead, pouting up at Dean so prettily, and Dean cups his face in his hands -- he's bigger than Sam, strong flat palms curving over vulpine-slanted cheekbones but Dean knows that's not going to last long, because Sammy's growing  _fast_  -- and he kisses him. 

 It's a wet, fevered mess of a kiss; the brothers Winchester attempt to devour each other, swaying back and forth, under a sky flushed ruddy with light pollution. The air is bitingly cold, but Dean doesn't notice -- he's too caught up in Sam, threading fingers through his baby brother's hair, tugging him forward, like he could just climb inside him. Maybe he could. Shit, they're as close to each other as two people can be; Dean likes to think he's a cynic, but he's a romantic at heart, and he believes in soulmates because he believes in Sam. 

The whole world could end, and as long as he has Sam he'll be okay. 

But there's a time for romance, and there's a time for good oldfashioned fucking, and it's pretty much time for the latter. Dean's got five days of sexual tension churning in his stomach, and he's ready to come there and then -- especially when Sam reaches for his belt with clever, skinny little fingers. 

"No," he says, batting them away, "not yet." Sam's face crumples. Dean cups his cheeks, kisses him again, long and slow and sweet; and that's not enough for Sam, who whines desperately against his mouth, nipping at Dean's lips. 

"Dean, I want you, want this --" and then he snaps away, eyes wide and horrified. "Do you?"

"Yes," Dean says, running calming hands down Sam's flanks, sliding up inside his layers, seeking (and finding) warm, soft skin. "Yes, more than anything. More than fuckin' anything. And I'm going to fuck you. Just not here."

"You driving me to makeout point?" coos Sam. Dean rolls his eyes. 

"Something like that."

 

\--

 

It's not makeout point. It's in an abandoned industrial estate, ten minutes from the motel, where there's nothing but metal frozen like titans clawing for the sky and acres of cloud-strewn stars. 

Dean pulls over, pops the handbrake on, and yanks Sam into his lap. 

Sam straddles him, shameless, knees either side of him and then it can really get going. 

There's a reason why Dean took them here, to the middle of nowhere and it's this --

"Oh God, oh  _Dean_  --" because Sam, darling dearest best-beloved Sam, is a noisy fucker. He just is. Dean loves it, loves hearing the wild singing cries his brother utters when Dean swallows his cock down, running his tongue down to his balls, back up to the head, circling round, leaving wet gleaming trails. And he wants to hear Sam gasping his want to the world: "Oh Dean, oh yes, love you, please -- love you so much, love you --" and, yeah Sam's such a girl. 

But that's okay. 

Dean takes Sam's cock to the back of his throat and holds it there. He feels his gag reflex flutter, useless, around Sam's shaft and he knows how fucking amazing that feels, because he remembers how amazing it is when Sam takes him that deep, when he sees the bulge of his dick in Sam's thin throat, when he pushes in deep and stays there until Sam's choking, gasping, gagging. 

(he remembers: sam, bright-eyed with annoyance, holding Dean's dick in one hand and Dean's hair in the other, snapping  _fuck my face i want i want_ and that's the key, that's the key to all of this. What is wanted. What is not. What Dean wants, what Sam wants; Dean wants what Sam wants; and Sam wants what Dean wants; and together, their wanting is a ferocious spiral, an ouroborous, eating itself.)

(which is a fucking pretentious way of saying: they egg each other on)

Sam's clearly been paying attention to the lessons Dean's been imparting. He grabs the spikes of Dean's hair, bucks his hips forwards, pushes his cock still deeper into the slickness of Dean's throat, uttering another one of his delicious high cries. "Dean, fuck. Take it. Take it."

And Dean slackens his throat, lets Sam thrust as hard as he likes (which is really fucking hard, because Sam's a kinky fucker) and he's smiling, smiling around his brother's cock, which probably makes him look like a drooling moron but he doesn't care. Doesn't care at all. There's spittle leaking down his chin, and he's pretty sure that his oxygen's being cut off (just a little) because Sam's getting blurry at the edges -- 

Oh no. Oh no, those are tears. Sam's fucking his throat so hard his eyes are watering. Dean wants to laugh, but that's sort of impossible, what with Sam's cock ramming into his face --

And then Sam comes. He's beautiful when he comes, his face going slack with pleasure and heavenly joy, and Dean swallows down every last drop. 

"Right," Sam says, panting and red-faced, shoving his fringe out of his face with the heel of his hand. "Fuck me."

Dean's glad to oblige. 

 

\--

 

He's got Sam with his ass tilted up, and there's his asshole. It's a pink pucker, and it's tiny.

Fuck. 

He's got to make that big enough to take his dick. 

Dean observes his dick. 

 _Fuck_.

 

\--

 

For the first time in his life, Dean wishes that he was a little less well-endowed. Just a little. 

Sam wriggles his hips. His asshole looks like it's winking at Dean. It's the most arousing and most terrifying thing he's ever seen. 

"C'mon," wheedles Sam. "Fuck me. Please? Dean, I need you. Need you inside me." He's boneless and liquid with pleasure, and he's holding himself like he's forgotten what his spine is for; propped on elbows and knees. 

Dean fumbles in his coat pocket. Locates the lube. Pours a generous quantity onto his hand, slicks himself up. His hands are dripping with it by the time he's finished, and there's a gelatinous puddle on the seat -- does lube stain? Shit, Dad's gonna kill him -- and then Dean shoves that thought out of his mind, because Sam's right in front of him, the most inviting thing Dean's ever seen, ever ever ever. 

Right. 

He's never actually done this before. Sure, he's daydreamed about it, and he's tried desperately to convince girls to try it -- but none of them ever have, and he's beginning to realise why. 

It's just so...small. 

And he's...not. 

 

\--

 

One finger. One, just a start, the tip nudging past a tight ring of muscle, sealing tight around Dean like it wants to hold him in there. The lube eases his way, and the finger slides all the way to the base and Sam's going breathless, soft, under Dean, a high whine building at the back of his throat. 

Dean remembers Rhonda Hurley: her penchant for trying to wrangle him into her panties, and also her penchant for nudging her fingers up his ass during blow jobs. 

Presuming that Sam is the same -- 

Dean crooks his finger. 

Sam  _screams_.

 

\--

 

Proof of God: found within his little brothers asshole. 

That's quite possibly the strangest thought Dean's ever had. 

He works that finger back and forth, pushing up against the nodule until Sam's keening, burying his face into the leather of Baby's seat, his hips a greedy shove against Dean. "Please," he whimpers. "Please, Dean, please."

Right. Dean pulls that finger out, has a look. Things are just as tight as before, but a little redder, and all slick and shiny with lube. 

Another finger joins the first. 

And another. 

And Dean works his digits back and forth, wriggling deeper into Sam, stretching him open, splaying him open -- so Dean can see inside, see close and sweet, that bit of Sam that no one's ever seen, that no one's ever going to see but Dean because he can guarantee  _guarantee_ that Sam's never going to have anyone else like this. Never going to be touched by anyone but Dean. 

His joints creak with exhaustion. His fingers ache, but he doesn't want to stop, doesn't want to pull himself out of Sam --

"Dean, you bastard, you  _bastard_  --" Sam's gasping, gagging, whining into the seats, pushing himself up against Dean's hand. "Get inside me. Now. Please?"

And so Dean pulls his fingers out, staring at the slackening muscle, a sloppy grin hanging off his face. He reaches round the spurs of Sam's hip, grabs his stiffening cock, gives it a couple of warm-up jerks. Sam literally bashes his forehead against the carseat, shoving into Dean in a lithe spill of desperate movement. "Want you," he says, his voice fracturing. "Want you  _need you_  -- please Dean, please --"

Dean fumbles upright, nudges the head of his cock against Sam's hole, hesitates a moment, because despite all the stretching Dean's still worried about the size discrepancy. 

"If you don't fuck me," says Sam. "I'll --"

And Dean pushes in. Sam's asshole stretches around him, accommodating and oh-so pretty -- pink and glistening.

Sam's eyes cross. A low hiss pushes through his teeth; he's in  _pain --_

Dean pulls out, kisses Sam's spine, breathing apology against his skin. "Baby boy," he says. "I'm sorry," and he pulls back. "We'll try --"

"You bastard! You  _bastard!"_ Sam spins around, a thrumming bundle of electricity and grabs Dean's collar, kissing him sloppy and inelegant and hungry. "I want you, I want you so much," he whines. "Dean --"

"-- I want you too," Dean says, more than a little astonished. "But I hurt you. It  _hurt_ you --"

"Put your cock in me. Right  _now,"_ and Sam wriggles onto his back, splaying his knees open in invitation; he might as well have a red carpet leading up to a flashing neon sign saying WELCOME HOME DEAN. He hooks his hands into the crook of his knees, yanks back, his forearms tensing white and beautiful, and Dean plasters kisses to Sam's face while sliding a spit-and-lube slick set of fingers back into his asshole. 

He works his fingers in, deep and hard, flaying them open; Sam's opening up so  _beautifully_ \--

"Like a flower," he murmurs, half lost in himself; his attention has turned Sam's rim puffy and red and oh, it's so beautiful. 

"A flower you will put your  _dick in_ ," snaps Sam. He wriggles his hips.  _  
_

Dean lines the head of his cock up, and pushes in; slow and deliberate, the rim opening up, slackening gorgeous and just so  _right._

It's tight and wonderful, blistering hot, clinging to Dean's cock. Stretching open. That tight ring of muscle just lets him in. Sam's mouth falls open, and Dean catches it with his own; they don't even kiss, they can't, they pant into each other's mouths; and Dean starts to pull out -- Sam's soft-soft skin snags on his cock, dragging open -- 

"Fuck me  _properly_ ," says Sam. He sucks Dean's lower lip in between his teeth, gnaws at it. "Dean --"

And Dean obeys. His hips snap forward, hard and shaking, and the world is shattering at the edges and the only sound is the damp, shuddering heaves of their breath, the slaps of skin on skin, the bite of salt in the air, the taste of sweat. Dean clamps his fingers into Sam's long girlish hair, knots them up, fucking in as hard as he can -- until Sam's uttering these high, beautiful babybird cries and he comes in a shivering series of white spurts over his own belly, and Dean follows him soon after: where he's meant to be, buried inside Sam, so close that they cannot be separated. 

 

-

 

Afterwards.

"We're going to have to drive around for like five hours with all the windows down just to get the smell out," Dean says. "This is terrible. This is awful. This is  _oh God yes_ \--" and he comes, again, down the back of Sam's throat.

They're totally going to go back. At some point. They kind of have to.

But not now. 

Because Sam's ready again, straddling Dean, sinking down onto his cock like he's been doing it for years. 

 

 


End file.
